


Should old acquaintance be forgot

by diadema



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Surprise Cameo, Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:54:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: When the trio learn that Waverly is going to be spending Christmas alone, they devise a plan to bring the holiday cheer to him.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller & Alexander Waverly
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	Should old acquaintance be forgot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueincandescence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueincandescence/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, blue! You are such a gift to our fandom and a friend and inspiration to us all. We're all so thrilled to have you with us still. Thanks for everything, and hope your holidays are very merry and bright. <3

“Tragic, isn’t it?” Napoleon muttered. 

His blue eyes swept around the rapidly emptying office from his perch on the corner of Gaby’s desk. All around him, the agents of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement were shaking hands and exchanging well-wishes as the office prepared to close down for the holidays.

Illya tsked. “What is tragic about this?” He gestured vaguely to the hubbub around them, never once lifting pen or gaze from the paperwork at hand. “They get time off. Get to go—” he faltered, cleared his throat, “—they get to go home. Is happy occasion.”

“Well,  _ yes, _ but,” the American drawled. “What about  _ him?” _

Gaby and Illya both turned to look. Alexander Waverly, their ally, mentor, and peerless British commander, was at the very heart of the chaos. He was practically being swarmed by the ranks of UNCLE employees eager to wish him a hearty farewell until the New Year.

The mechanic shrugged. “What about him?"

“Does  _ he _ have a home to go to?”

“You really think he lives here in office,” Illya said. His words were laced with sarcasm, weighted down by his own scornful disbelief.

“What about a family then?” he countered. He turned to Gaby for help, plucking the pen out of her hands when she made to keep writing. “Come on, Teller. You should know this.” 

She bristled. Her dark eyes flared in warning and a too-light smile curved at the corners of her mouth. “And why is that?”

“Because you might be the closest thing he has to one.”

A curious blankness descends on her features. A sober warring of allegiance and affection for her handler and occasional father figure and a wanting to prove herself on her own merits. Not that she needed to. It was a well-known—and undisputed—fact that the mechanic was of the highest caliber the agency had to offer.

“He has a brother,” she admitted. “An  _ estranged _ brother.”

“Is he married?”

“Not to my knowledge. Why? Do you fancy him?”

Illya muffled his laugh behind a cough as Napoleon shot her a decidedly unimpressed look. Still, the American was insistent.

“What about kids?”

_ “We are all his children,” _ she intoned, deadpan.

A handful of agents turned at the violent outburst of Russian laughter. Napoleon smiled, benign, and waved them off. He smoothly went to fill a paper cup with water and handed it to Illya, patting him on the back with a bit more force than necessary.

“Come now, Teller,” he said. “Play nice.”

She leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were searching, voice lower and more serious. “Why are you doing this?”

“Call it a hunch.” He paused. “You said he was estranged from his brother?”

“He’s estranged from  _ everyone.” _

Gaby looked away, not wanting to meet the wide eyes of her partners or to watch them study their boss with… pity. Or even worse, understanding.

“When he relinquished his title—”

“His family relinquished him.” Illya’s voice was rough. His fingers flexed, once, twice, until a smaller set soothed his. An idle, almost unconscious touch from the mechanic. 

“So maybe you’re right, Solo,” she added. It was meant to sound defiant, but there was a tremble to it. “But he has  _ you _ too. And Illya. And everyone else here.”

Napoleon hummed. “We are all his children indeed.” 

There was a sudden spark of mischief in that smirk of his. “Well, seeing how we’re all  _ family, _ what do you say we make the old man’s Christmas?”

“He is our superior,” Illya hissed. “Would be inappropriate.”

“If you’d rather bake him cookies, Peril, then by all means, be my guest. But,  _ I,  _ for one, would rather not see him wandering a drafty old mansion by himself. Especially on a holiday.”

“He could be traveling. He could have  _ guests. _ ”

“Then what’s a few more?” Napoleon grinned at the Russian’s indignant sputtering.

“I’ll make you a deal, Peril. We send Gaby in to find out what our man is getting up to for Christmas. If he’s away or otherwise engaged, we’ll back off. And if not…”

“We stage a home invasion. Very festive,” Illya sniffed.

“You know you could just invite him over for dinner, Solo.”

Napoleon flashed his best roguish smile. “But where’s the fun in that?”

* * *

Christmas dawned in brilliant fashion: sunlight glinting off of snow, an oasis of pristine white dotted with dark green trees and the multicolored trappings of the holiday season. It was a cozy wonderland straight out of a fairytale, but the  _ real _ magic was brewing indoors.

Over steaming mugs of coffee and hot cocoa, UNCLE’s most decorated team munched on french toast as Gaby’s modest kitchen was being put through its paces. All manner of spiced cookies and delicate cakes were being whipped up under Napoleon’s watchful eye: a pre-emptive peace offering of sorts for an unsuspecting host.

The plans had all been laid, the presents had been exchanged, and the mechanic’s whole flat was aglow with an easygoing warmth. Music played lowly from the living room as the trio worked in that effortlessly intuitive fashion born of trust and a deep awareness of their partner’s styles and needs.

In a few short hours, they would be embarking to the English countryside to see their Christmas miracle through. The crisp air was fraught with anticipation, but there was a heady buzz around it as well: they were co-conspirators, a trio of reformed Scrooges eager to bestow their boons on a sure-to-be-shocked household.

Wanted or not, they were coming.

* * *

Illya shuffled his feet in an odd sort of nerves. The mansion was undecorated, the snow undisturbed by either footsteps or tire tracks. A solitary light shone faintly behind drawn curtains. He leaned down to whisper in Gaby’s ear, hands tightening on the plates of baked goods he was holding. “You are  _ sure _ he is even home?”

The mechanic hummed, grim. He had told her as much a couple of days ago—had even sounded quite pleased at the prospect. But still, as they knew all too well, plans could change at the drop of a hat. A last-minute trip could have come up. Or worse… a last-minute guest. “There’s only one way to find out.” She looked between her two partners. “Ready?”

_ “Da.” _

“After you,” Napoleon said. “Better to have his favorite be the first face he sees.”

Gaby huffed but didn’t deny it. She took a deep breath before knocking on the door. A long silence greeted them. Just when the doubts were beginning to creep in and they were ready to abandon their efforts, a very flustered-looking Waverly answered it.

“Merry Christmas,” she blurted out. 

Waverly stared at them blankly before weakly returning the greeting. “What on  _ earth _ are you three doing here?”

His tone, mercifully, was more astonished than admonishing. When Gaby and Illya remained silent, Napoleon smoothly stepped in to handle things. “We heard that you were spending Christmas alone, so we thought we’d stop by. Spread some holiday cheer.”

“Now, that’s very kind of you, Solo, but now really isn’t the best—”

“We come bearing gifts,” he countered, raising his parcel-laden hands in emphasis. He nodded his head to indicate the Russian icicle beside him. “Peril, here, even prepared a few traditional carols. He’s been practicing all week.”

Illya’s eyes widened, horrified, and his mouth fell open. He shook his head, sputtering incoherently. Long arms reached out and unceremoniously dropped their contents into Waverly’s hands. “Sorry to intrude,” he said curtly. “Enjoy.”

The Russian turned to go before a strange voice stopped him. “You might as well let them in, Alex. I doubt you’ll be rid of them otherwise.”

The three agents stared at the woman who had materialized over their handler’s shoulder. Her hair was graying, but her dark eyes hinted at an uncommon perceptiveness. She was beautiful, without question, but there was a magnetism to her that drew them all in.

She smiled wryly at Illya. “Besides, I think I’d rather like to listen to you sing.”

When Waverly made no move to introduce his companion, the American once more took the lead. He shuffled packages to free up his hand before extending it to her. “Napoleon Solo.”

“Margaret Carter,” she said. “I’ve heard all about you.”

This seemed to unfreeze the Russian. “I am Illya—”

“Kuryakin. Yes, I know. And that must make you,” she said, turning to the mechanic, “Gaby Teller.”

“Hello.”

Waverly cleared his throat and stepped aside to let the agents through. “Peggy is here—”

“Technically, I’m not here at all, as you may have already guessed.” She shrugged as she led them into a well-appointed sitting room.  _ “But, _ Alex is an old friend.”

Napoleon looked at her curiously. “How do you know Waverly?” He smiled disarmingly. “If I’m allowed to ask, that is.”

“I run my own agency called SHIELD,” she said.

Illya’s brow furrowed as he repeated the unfamiliar name. “Shield.”

“Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division,” Waverly added. He chuckled. “You think I came up with an acronym like “UNCLE” on my own?”

He smiled fondly. “Peggy was instrumental in getting our little outfit up and running. We wouldn’t be here without her support.”

“How come we’ve never heard of SHIELD?” Gaby asked.

“You know,” Peggy said, “I am  _ so _ glad you asked. Alex and I were just discussing a partnership between our agencies.”

She gave Waverly a deliberate look before turning back to Gaby. She indicated their still full arms. “Why don’t you help me take some of these into the kitchen, and I’ll tell you more about it?”

Gaby’s eyes were bright, head held high and beaming as she followed Peggy, leaving the men to their own devices. 

A sudden quiet descended on the room. Waverly coughed and shuffled over to poke at the fire, coaxing a brighter, more generous glow from the fire. He looked around, a bit stiffly, until his eyes alit on something tucked away.

“Ah,” he said, grabbing a lacquered box. He extended it with a triumphant flourish to Illya. “Pick a side.”

“You play chess?”

“I flatter myself in thinking so,” he said, unpacking the box and its contents. “But I suppose you’ll have to be the judge of that.”

Solo settled himself on a couch and snagged a newspaper from the tabletop. When the doorbell rang a few moments later, he was the only one to not seem surprised by it.

He tossed the paper aside and stood up. “That would be the welcoming party.”

The color drained from Waverly’s face, the chess game immediately forgotten. Even Gaby and Peggy had returned to investigate. “What have you done, Solo?”

The American grinned. “Merry Christmas, sir.”


End file.
